


all liquor and sharp edges

by Notawriterjustalurker



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Human Trafficking, Smut, but like, insults as foreplay, its humorous, mentions of child abuse, mild torture of people that deserve it, porn that’s been threatened with plot, team work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25606489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notawriterjustalurker/pseuds/Notawriterjustalurker
Summary: Just Jessica Jones and Matt Murdock working the night shift together
Relationships: Jessica Jones/Matt Murdock
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	all liquor and sharp edges

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun fic I wrote while procrastinating the fic I was supposed to be writing 🤷 
> 
> These two are fun, Jessica is my spirit animal 😂

If Jessica tossed a bottle of whiskey on the ground — not that she would, but hypothetically – then picked up the shards of broken glass, put em' back together, bits missing, some bits too small to salvage, the good shit that's inside mainly gone — yeah, that's pretty much how her and Matt fit together. It shouldn't work, but it does. They're not a team, not really — they're just two separate pieces of the same shit show. And he's different now, back from the dead. No red armour or ears or dress up games, just something tight and black enough to sneak up her in a darkened alleyway – the way your mother always taught you to approach a woman, especially one who's only one reactive elbow away from putting you through a wall. And he may as well be the Fun Police, because there's only so many jokes you can crack about human trafficking. But he's been rubbing off on her that way, all stoic and justice-hungry and she somehow feels more attached to it all now; like it's her duty, or whatever.

Tonight's been tiresome, though. She's been standing in this warehouse freezing her ass off for over an hour — he's freezing his ass off too, shrinking muscle and standing to attention nipples that she's trying not to stare at. But both the word on the street and the comprising photos on Jessica's camera tell them they've got the right guy, or, at least someone who can give them what they really need, the name of the distributer — the Manager in Chief of Minors-for-sale limited or whatever the fuck sick circus show they have the balls to call a business enterprise. 

But Jessica's starting to think maybe it was a mistake leaving Matt in charge of interrogation duties because their buddy here is blindfolded and bound to a chair, something he's probably grateful for after the beating he's just taken. The rope that's wrapped around his back coils into an elaborate knot, looping around in a crisscross pattern under his chest and around his arms before splitting at his thighs and finishing at the bottom of each chair leg, acting as a wooden splint for each calf. And yeah, you bet it resembles that Japanese bondage shit that all the girls with daddy issues go nuts for, so much so, for a moment she's not sure whether Matt's gonna beat him or fuck him — A+ for effort and flair though; she's not impressed, but maybe she is a little curious — 

"..so does this have practical use or are you just showing off?" Jessica has to ask, and Matt's lips curl in response, a knowing half-held back grin that makes it look like a girls never fucking spoken to him before.

"It has its uses." A tinge of something suggestive in his tone causes her to roll her eyes. He's not so shy with her anymore — his humour, about as dry as the cupboard where she keeps her liquor (if she had one) and about as wafer thin as her patience — because apparently, they're friends now, or something like that.

But still, doing things the _'right way_ ' means it's probably going to be morning before this arsehole decides to wake up. Matt claims he's not a sadist, but he's practically foaming at the mouth. So Jessica does them both a favour and drives her heel into his foot, hard enough to break his toes, but mercifully enough not to leave too much of a crater in the concrete floor below. He comes to with a petrified gurgle, the blood that's starting to congeal around his mouth coating his yellowish white t-shirt and Jessica's leather jacket sleeve in a splattering of crimson mist like a scene from a Tarintino movie. 

" _De-fucking-lightful_." 

She recoils lazily, heavy boots standing in her place because he likes this part — his mouth quirked and his head tilting to listen in to God knows what, like you'd want to absorb any more of this guy than absolutely necessary. Ten meters away is more than ample to tell the probable state of his arteries or deduce the extent of his aversion to personal hygiene and Jessica doesn't have _heightened_ anything.

But if there's one thing she's learnt lately it's that altar-boy loves beating the ever loving shit outta people. Especially people like this — people that fuck with kids. And she thinks maybe it's a good job his accident didn't leave him with her fists or they'd be a lot of criminal-shaped holes in walls and entrail-smeared sidewalks and he'd be spending a lot more time in that little confession box of his.

"Good morning sunshine," Matt says as he leans in and smiles, fierce and bitter, and laced with disdain — "do you know why we're here?"

The man trembles, shakes his head, and the ropes seem to clench and tighten, separating his chubby little arms into donuts of peach-white flesh bulging against coarse fibres. "W- what is this? What's going on? Who the fuck are you?"

And Matt answers, dropping to one knee, his voice almost a purr and his body language oozing some kind of hostile friendliness, "...we're your lucky day..."

This is the part where Jessica zones out. She's heard him make this speech too many times before, it starts with the 'be grateful _I'm not a killer_ ' line and usually ends with the closing threat of — ' _you'll wish I was one.'_

"No no no. You don't understa— the girl's not mine, she's not mine," the man stammers, "wait. Do you think? — I swear. I just watch the house sometimes, that's all it is — that's all."

And even to Jessica — who as it happens, isn't a human fucking lie detector, it reeks of nothing but excuses and lies and halitosis and Matt is quick to surpess the sound with a tight grasp of his chin between leather clad fingers. It's entertaining to watch, sure, but if she's honest this whole thing is taking far too long, just being in this guys presence is enough make her puke, and there's a two day old left-over pizza at home that has more appeal than spending a just minute more than she really has to with this freak –

"Goddammit," she mutters to herself — "hey. shit face —" Jessica's voice startles him, "...how's your pain tolerance? Cause you know, I'm pretty strong, for a girl..." And it's kinda funny watching him practically choke himself out trying to track her through thick fabric covering his eyes, "...awh. Not into that huh? Girls that are stronger than you?" 

Matt lets out what she can only describe as a boyish snicker, and when she glances up, the lower half of his face is painted with one of his trademark 'panty-droppers' — that's the mental name she's chosen to give to his smile when the corners of his mouth spread wide enough to push his cheeks into his eyes. It's ammunition for her blood-lust, like a shot of confidence straight into her veins – she spreads a gloved hand over his thigh reluctantly — "...you know this guy here; the one that beat the shit out of you….Yeah. He actually has morals..." she digs her fingers into sour flesh and feels it radiates through muscle, tendon, and bone, his head lurching back against constraints as he pushes out a scream that only drives her grip deeper. Curiously though, it's Matt that holds out a subtle hand signal that tells her to stop; she can only imagine he can hear his femur creaking or something, because Jessica is pretty sure it hasn't broken yet and she's barely even trying.

"You want some more asshole?" 

"Lady _lady lady — please_ — It's..."

But Matt waves her on with a come hither movement of his fingers, like he's helping to back a truck into a tight space, something she'd be willing to bet no one's ever asked him to do before, and so she squeezes, squeezes, squeezes —

"Fuck! Okay —" and he spits out a name that barely makes it out as a squeak, still, it's enough. Matt shunts a quick and perfectly placed elbow into the man's temple rendering him, once again flaccid against the ropes.

"Thank you." He says, "...annnd..you can stop now Jessica."

Yeah. He's right, she probably should.

They make for the small gap under the corrugated iron door, ducking under as the approaching sirens wail and the blue lights bounce their reflections off of their backs.

"That was some good work." She sort of wishes he wouldn't do that — compliment her, that is.

"Thanks. Maybe try smiling less, though. You'll ruin your image."

"My image?"

"Yeah. You know, blood, justice — eternal pain." 

"Blood and justice?.." Matt repeats, conveniently missing out that last part, running it over his tongue, like maybe he's thinking about printing on a t-shirt, "you wanna beer? My place?" 

That part, she'll admit, was slightly unexpected. But she raises him anyway, "whiskey and I'll consider."

And that, to put it simply is how she ends up back at Matt's apartment — slow, careful steps down into darkness flooded with nauseatingly bright neon; a little snapshot of his secret life, a peek through the curtain into the devil's lair. It's more domesticated than she imagined; he strips his clothes like she's not even there, mask and slick bloody fabric hitting the living room floor with a slopping sound, a problem for future Matt Murdock — pretty-boy Matt Murdock, the one that must have a laundry pile the size of Mount Rushmore and doesn't beat the shit out of kiddie fiddlers.

He was serious about the whiskey though. It's in her hand before she can even think of anything witty to say about the general shitiness of his apartment. It's the good stuff too. Not that cheap shit from the corner store; sweet, golden, nectar on her tongue, downed in two gulps leaning against Matt's kitchen counter. He offers her more but she snatches the bottle instead, takes a swig, passes it back to him. He takes a swig too.

"You good?" 

Great. He's worried about her. She's not here to talk about feelings. Certainly not with him. "What are you a shrink now?"

"I'm just asking if you're okay."

"Just peachy." 

And of course he doesn't believe her. He can hear her heartbeat, sense that she's tense, sense that all this stuff bothers more than she'd ever admit — the only man she's never met who she's got no defences around. So it's a choice now between talking feelings, or leaving, or shutting him up in some other way, and the latter doesn't seem so bad now that he's shirtless and she can feel the heat of his exertion leaking from his skin and see the stupidly inviting warmth of his directionless eyes. 

And that's how they end up kissing. And he seems more than a little up for it. Maybe it's the adrenaline talking or the whiskey or both but soon the small of her back is pressed against the sideboard and Matt's hands are fumbling with the belt of her jeans and she's grabbing his dick through his pants —

And it's fine thing that Murdock kisses like he's fucking in love with you, like he's waited his whole life to savour the inside of your mouth. And she'd never admit it but it makes her feel kind of special, a sound that she doesn't care to acknowledge creeps out of her throat when his teeth nip at her bottom lip and she finds a pleasant bit of friction up against his thigh.

"This is a bad idea," Jessica sighs, resisting with as little effort as possible as she dips a hand past the hem of his pants to cup his firm, full ass cheek. 

"Could be," Matt agrees, careless, with a mouthful of her nipple.

The fact that he's agreeing with her somehow makes it less bad, like it's not all on her if this goes the way it's likely to — south. Or maybe that's just a freedom you're granted when you know that in a few days, you'll be confessing this whole thing to some old guy in a collar, absolving yourself of your sins, washing that stain away the same way he washes the blood out of his clothes. Yeah, that must be nice.

Speaking of Catholicism — 

"Condom?"

"Bedside drawer."

Good. So he's Catholic but not that Catholic. And Matt's lucky hes got such a cute little ass because the walk from the kitchen to the bedroom is practically a fucking marathon; certainly long enough to make her contemplate the mess she's getting herself into. But she follows him anyway, watches him strip his pants and boots and boxer briefs and roll the condom over himself and she sheds her own clothes too, swallowing back the thought of where they've been tonight and the fact they should probably shower or something. But it's not like they've got time for candle-lit bubble bath and to be honest it suits the mood anyway, quick, and dirty and full to the brim with self-loathing.

"I'm disappointed."

Matt tosses the condom wrapper on the floor and pauses to morph his face into something puppyish, a ridiculous contrast to his body, "awh, already?"

"Well you had me expecting ropes, ball-gags, that sort of thing."

And Matt laughs a laugh that's a little too loud, enough to make his eyes crease and his bruised shoulders heave and his slanted smile doesn't exactly _deny_ the existence of said box of tricks. But he spreads his thighs wide on the side of the bed, making himself as available to her as possible and lord, no wonder everyone wants to fuck this guy — "only on Tuesdays." 

Funny. Almost as funny as her but not quite. 

She mounts him and pushes him down with a palm in the middle of his chest and it's rushed — she's a little tight and he's not exactly small but foreplay is for suckers and the half-whimper he makes when she sinks all the way down onto his cock despite the hard stretch he's giving her would be sure to soak her panties if she were wearing any.

" _Fuck_ — Jessica," he chokes, somewhere between ecstasy and admiration and instead of grabbing her thighs he brings his arms above his head and crosses his wrists and begs her with nothing more than the open curve of his bottom lip for her to hold him down.

"You want your wrists broken Matty? Cause that's how you get your wrists broken."

"I trust you."

"You shouldn't."

He really shouldn't. But the need in his voice makes her insides throb and yeah, it's true that she'd rather not hurt him. She's grown rather fond of this idiot over the last few months.

"If you insist." 

And it's so easy: pinning both his wrists, one on top of the other in her hand, leaving the other one free as fights her grip, just to make sure it's real, that she's not just humouring him — so she holds them extra hard, hard enough to curl his fingers and round his biceps and he smirks approvingly at her efforts to keep him still as she grinds her clit against his washboard abs. It's good. Better than she expected. So good she has to slow herself to try and stall the approach of her orgasm. Matt's giving himself stubble-burn on his chest from trying to pull out of her grasp and she fears he might put a hole right through that plump bottom lip of his if he bites any harder. That part, at least, is great for her ego, she's always been good at riding dick, that's something that happens when you're stronger than pretty much everyone you've ever slept with, but there's something about the way he looks – funny, considering he's not _looking_ at anyone — it's that soft, encouraging expression paired with the concave hollow of his rib cage stretched out and straining underneath her, a strong, but somehow delicate, white underbelly all exposed and vulnerable and hers for the taking — 

She finds something to do with her free hand, running it over his chest and his patchwork of scars, tweaking his nipple. She thinks about slipping a thumb or finger into his mouth — watching him suck on it for all the lack of choice he has, but she's reminded again of where her hands have been and she reconsiders. Something to note for next time, though, if there is one.

"Jessica –" he pants, "you can be rough with me. I can take it."

No — no he can't, but Jesus, she's still weak for that shit. He'll have bruises where her knees have hugged his ribs tomorrow, something that's probably not helped by the fact she can't find any purchase on the slippery sheets that are bunching up under her shins. But he'll remember her, he'll remember this — for a few days at least, just another battle-mark to hide under his shirt cuffs or to make him wince when he bends over at the office or stands up in the Courtroom. Jessica kind of likes the thought of that.

So she fucks him roughly, like he asked, slaming down and leaning back and fucking up the rhythm a few times, ugly wet sounds coming from between their bodies. And he fills the hollow emptiness of his too-spacipus apartment with throaty cries and a quite frankly shocking array of curse words and fuck, he really does look gorgeous like this — flustered and right on the edge. If she was a better person she'd tell him, a little praise never did hurt in the context of the bedroom — lord knows he needs it, maybe even more than she does. But the desperate moan he makes then leaves her playing catch up, a rookie mistake that sees her letting go of his wrists — allowing him to thrust up into her, taking control back for that last second after she's done all the leg work — infuriating. Then he reaches up and shoves a hand into her hair, tugging at her roots so hard she'd have considered violence if she weren't already coming like a freight train. She rides out her pleasure; his too as it turns out, waves and jolts and sliding bodies craving friction, and she finds herself a little saddened when she misses his big moment because her own eyes are clamped shut but yeah, he definitely _sounds_ good when he comes, and the afterglow that's dampened his hair and tinted the apples of his cheeks doesn't look so bad on him either. But she doesn't stay long enough to appreciate it. He's relaxed into a pile of goo beneath her, drunk on a chemical high that she's mostly responsible for and she gets the sense he's about to get cuddly; so she rolls off before he can think about making this anything more than it is —

"Wow.. Jess.. that —"

"Yeah," she snaps, "it was good. Now don't fucking ruin it." 

And his big hands flop down beside him with a defeated smile. It's obvious he's not to used to his conquests leaving his bed quite this quickly but hey, there's a first time for everything and Jessica's not one for pillow talk.

"Well then I guess I'll see you tomorrow," Matt says softly, carefully, maybe even a little sadly.

"Yeah," Jessica smriks, trying to hide her breathlessness as she slides her jeans back over her thighs, "I guess you will, Murdock."


End file.
